A Late Night Helping Hand
by 96 Hubbles
Summary: Houdini helps Doyle after a late night mishap early in their voyage home. Can be read as friendship, pre-slash, or established relationship - whatever strikes your fancy!


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 _Disclaimer: Characters/real people are not mine and not meant to be a reflection on the creation of others. I'm just playing with them for a bit._

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 **A Late Night Helping Hand**

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He didn't know what had happened. The pain in his back after using the facilities had woken him slightly more than had the near sleepwalking shamble he'd made to the lavatory, but even in that state he hadn't been fully aware of anything other than his inexplicable discomfort. Then, between one breath and the next, he had slammed down so hard that he was still trying to comprehend what had taken place as arms wrapped themselves around him and he felt someone trying to lift him.

"Doyle? Doyle, are you okay?"

Doyle swallowed hard and looked around in a daze. "Houdini?"

"Yeah, it's me. Did you hit your head?"

He couldn't understand why he was trembling, or why he felt as if a wave of freezing water had washed through him. "I'm sorry?" he asked, not quite sure what Harry was saying to him.

"Are you okay?" Houdini repeated.

Looking around as things slowly began to sink in, he blinked up at Houdini. "Did I wake you?"

"You think I sleep in a get-up like this?" Houdini asked wryly.

Doyle blinked again, still quite shaken, but rallied just enough to take note of Harry crouching beside him, still in his white tie tuxedo, minus the jacket. _Likely had dinner with the Captain again_ , he deduced; the three of them were currently quite the celebrities after their saving President McKinley, but neither he nor Adelaide were in much shape to make the social rounds and so it had all fallen to Harry. "In my defence," he said, his voice sounding distressingly weak even to him, "your normal night attire is usually so outlandish in any case, I can't see how one could reasonably be expected to tell the difference."

Harry snorted, but seemed relieved at this sign that Doyle wasn't completely addled. "You're a million laughs, Doc. I can get you on the vaudeville circuit if you ever want to give up writing, but for now let's get you sitting down." The younger man hauled Doyle to his feet and helped him stumble to the bed.

Unfortunately the movement only exacerbated Doyle's dizziness. Breathing raggedly, he instinctively put his head between his knees and tried very hard not to pass out. Just as grey patches swirled in front of his eyes and he was certain he was going to face the abject humiliation of passing out in front of Houdini, he felt a cold cloth pressed against his forehead and another on the back of his neck. "That's it, just keep breathing, deep and slow," Harry soothed. Feeling uncomfortably self-conscious, Doyle raised his head at the first sign of his vision clearing, but again the movement was too much and a sudden roiling of his stomach kept him from doing anything but crying out for the dustbin. Harry got it under him just in time for him to thoroughly embarrass himself without hazarding the other man's shoes. When the shameful eruption slowed to a sputter and then - finally - ceased, he reeled heavily against Harry who held on tightly. "All done?" the younger man asked.

"God, I hope so," Doyle moaned as Houdini wiped gently as his mouth.

They sat quietly until Doyle's breathing slowed to normal. "I'm sorry, Harry. That must have been very unpleasant."

"Don't worry about it. In fact, you're my second patient of the day."

"Adelaide, I take it?"

"She's been sick on me twice already. Ruined a perfectly good pair of spats."

Doyle chuckled weakly. "Perhaps it was revenge for the time you were sick on her shoes."

"Then she's overdone it."

"In any case, this voyage must be a very tedious one for you."

"Maybe tedium is a bit nice right now," Harry said, and something about his tone caused a stricken feeling in Doyle. It had sounded so final, as if Harry was perhaps looking forward to the potential end of their three-way partnership. _You're merely being fanciful,_ Doyle told himself, but he couldn't help feeling an overwhelming stab of melancholy.

"What is it? Should I get a steward to go wake up the ship's doctor?" Harry asked, sensing something was off.

"No, no, I'm fine," Doyle protested feebly. "I just can't get my head around Harry Houdini, of all people, craving a spot of boredom."

"Yeah, well, this last case, you know..."

Doyle did know. Harry was dealing with the loss of his mother, Adelaide with the loss of Benjamin - both physically and as the man she had knew and loved - and him... If he was being entirely honest, this second brush with death had frightened him. Frightened him and made him question the responsibility of risking his death when he had a family to care for. So, yes, he understood, but the idea of the three of them going their separate ways was devastating.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Could I trouble you for a glass of water? I really would like to get rid of the awful taste in my mouth, but I don't feel up to moving about just now."

Houdini swiftly strode to the lavatory and brought back not just a glass of water, but a small basin along with Doyle's toothbrush and jar of tooth powder. Doyle thanked him gratefully and proceeded to brush his teeth, spitting out in the basin and then downing the rest of the water due to a sudden thirst.

"Are you really all right, Doc?" Harry asked again, looking at him closely. "Are you sure you don't want to see the ship's doctor?"

Doyle was about to shake his head, then thought better of it. "Don't be silly. I just had a bit of a funny turn. It'll pass."

"Forgive me if don't find that at all reassuring."

"I took an unfortunate tumble. No harm done."

"Just a tumble, huh?"

"I was half-asleep and fell over the rug in the dark." Houdini raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Doyle's nightstand. Doyle followed his gaze and, with chagrin, realized for the first time the bedside lamp was lit. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall if he'd lit it to go to the lavatory or if Harry had upon entering from the adjoining stateroom. "Hmm, yes, well..."

"So this has nothing to do with the fact that you're still recovering from a bullet wound?"

"Must you always be such an infernal skeptic?"

"Since you nearly coated my seventy-five dollar shoes with last evening's Poached Salmon with Mousseline sauce and Waldorf pudding, I'm going to say _yes_. Yes, because _some people_ , naming no names, are too damn stubborn to take care of themselves."

Doyle looked away in exasperation, knowing full well that Harry wasn't going to let it go. "All right, I'll admit it: I'm not yet as strong as I would wish."

"And...?" Harry prodded.

"And you don't have to sound so bloody gleeful about it."

"Not the answer I was hoping for, Doyle."

"Fine, I... I'm still experiencing some residual pain when I have to use the lavatory. Are you satisfied now?" he mumbled reluctantly as a blush heated his cheeks.

"Not even close! I knew you were being stupid by trying to do too much, acting like you were strongly than you were, but now you're telling me you're in enough pain to make you collapse?" Harry leapt to his feet. "That's it, I'm finding a steward and getting him to wake up the doctor."

"Harry, calm down! I simply tripped on the rug. Yes, there _was_ some small amount of pain - _fleeting_ pain, I might add - which momentarily made me clumsy in my distraction, but that's _all_. There's no need to rouse out the doctor at this time of night."

"What sort of pain?"

"I'm sorry, have you earned a medical diploma since I saw you last?"

"Don't give me that 'I'm a doctor so just accept whatever baloney I feed you as the gospel truth' nonsense, just tell me!"

"Baloney?"

"Rot. Balderdash. Or whatever ludicrous word from _Boys' Own Adventures_ you Brits use to say horse sh - "

"I get it!" Doyle exclaimed, interrupting.

"Fine, so don't hand it to me! Now, what sort of pain are you feeling?"

Doyle rolled his eyes. "A minor twinge in my back when I have to urinate. Do I need to disrobe now for further examination, or can I return to my slumber?"

"Well, it would be a great excuse to get you out of that ridiculous nightshirt," Harry said with a smirk.

"If you plan on stripping me down to my essentials, you're damn well going to have to buy me dinner first."

"Are you always this cranky in the middle of the night?"

"Only when being hounded to divulge the more intimate facts of my physical state to a stage magician."

"Are you telling me a stage magician can't be concerned for a friend? Ouch! That hurts. It really does."

Doyle let out a long-suffering sigh. "I didn't mean it that way and you know it."

"So let me see if I've got the picture here: you're still exhausted from blood loss and dopey on pain medicine - "

"I am not dopey!"

"What are they giving you? Morphine? Heroin?"

"I was _sleepy!_ That is all!"

"Fine, you're half asleep, but decide to go blundering around the cabin in the middle of the night..."

"I didn't blunder around, I went to the lavatory. And I don't even know why I'm answering your questions!"

"Okay, so you come out and your back is aching," Harry went on, ignoring Doyle's arguments as if the man hadn't spoken at all, "But instead of asking for help, you play the shiny hero and end up collapsing to the floor."

"It didn't occur to me to ask for help when I - and presumably everyone else - was asleep."

"Fair point. Still though, are you sure you didn't jar anything internal when you hit the floor? Tear open the wound? Knock your kidneys around like ping-pong balls in a barrel?"

"Please slow down, your advanced medical terminology is becoming too much for me to follow."

"You know, we could still do that examination."

"Your bedside manner needs some definite work," Doyle complained, but he removed his nightshirt and then undid the top few buttons near the neck of his long underthings to take an awkward peek inside. "There! No blood, no loose stitches," he reported.

"Let me see."

"Not on your life," Doyle told him.

"What about the stitches inside?"

"Harry, I am, beyond an absolutely breathtaking shadow of a doubt, not letting you cut me open to have a root around to see if my stitches have held. I feel no pain from that quarter and you'll have to be satisfied with that."

Houdini jumped on his obvious mistake. "But you do feel some kind of pain, then?"

"Harry, for God's sake! You are the most aggravating person alive."

"Too bad, Doc. I'm not leaving till you level with me, so if you want me out of here, you'd better fess up."

"Well, I suspect _someone_ of trying to intentionally trying to drive my blood pressure up, naming no names of course. Does that count as enough of a confession for you?"

"Nope," Houdini told him with a smirk.

Doyle cursed silently, then, "All right, yes. The fall was hard on my back," he conceded. "And it did pull at the wound a tad, but certainly not enough for all this fuss!"

"How about your hands and knees? Ankles? Anything swollen?" Houdini asked, sitting down next to Doyle on the bed once more and grabbing his wrist to feel for any breaks.

"I will likely have some vivid bruises by tomorrow or the next day," Doyle said with a jaw-cracking yawn, "but nothing more than that."

"How about your head?"

"I don't think it hit," Doyle told him, "I believe I became sick more down to the shock of the fall and the aftereffects of the accompanying surge of adrenaline striking me when I was already shaken." He finished by yawning a second time.

"Aww, is it beddy-bye time for Little Lord Fauntleroy?"

"You're incorrigible," Doyle said, but considering he was suddenly too exhausted to even work up a sufficient glare, he couldn't dispute the matter. That same adrenaline was now deserting him nearly as quickly as it had come on, and he sagged against Harry.

"You wouldn't want it any other way," Harry said.

Doyle snorted, but his eyelids were starting to droop.

"Got that sad look off your face, didn't I?" Doyle's eyes widened at that as Harry stood and helped him lie back on the bed. "This isn't the end, Arthur."

"No," Doyle agreed, smiling tiredly. "There's no reason to think it is, is there?"

"Those idiots at the Yard will probably stick Adelaide back in the basement if we're not around to pester them - which is incredibly unfair and stupid, but there it is. And you can't get rid of me, I'm the original bad penny. For instance, even though you confessed, I'm not going anywhere tonight," Harry said, pulling a nearby chair closer to the bed with a foot.

"Harry, that's hardly necessary."

"Shut up and listen to your doctor," Houdini ordered as he pulled the covers up.

Doyle fumbled to grab hold of the bedclothes before he could be subjected to the indignity of Harry tucking him in for the night. "Technically, this sort of care traditionally falls under the purview of nurses," he pointed out when he couldn't manage to get Harry to let go. The magician immediately dropped the blankets, causing Doyle's mouth to twitch a bit smugly. "You could always make it a second career, you know," he added.

"I'm turning down the lamp now," Harry said, not rising to the bait.

"What, no bedtime story or kiss goodnight, Nanny?" Doyle murmured, already drifting off.

Just as he was slipping into sleep, Doyle jerked at the sensation of someone kissing his forehead.

"Ha! Don't make an offer if you're not prepared to have someone call your bluff!" the magician advised.

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 _Author's note: This story came from the final scene, when I couldn't help but wonder under what exact circumstances Doyle would confide in Harry that it still hurt him to pee, making it likely the strangest inspiration ever for one of my stories. In any case,_ _hope you enjoyed it!_


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